Humanity Unhinged
by MegwinWrites
Summary: A/U. What if the people Michael hinged his humanity upon died or disappeared?
1. Chapter 1 - Good Soldier

**Humanity Unhinged**

"What if the people Michael hinged his humanity upon died or disappeared?"

This story is an A/U set from the Pilot episode.

I will apologise now for any spelling or grammatical errors, while I've checked through thoroughly I've bound to have made some mistakes.

Just as a side note, I will be attempting to post new chapters weekly.

**Disclaimer: **The characters in this story belong to the genius that is Matt Nix.

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**Chapter 1 – Good Soldier**

He woke with a jolt. Unsure of what had brought him out of his comatose state he remained motionless, listening for any sign that he wasn't alone. The noise came again, a sound as if someone was attempting to pick the doors' lock; it was almost indiscernible but he still heard it. Despite his tired and beaten muscles screaming in agony at the slow, meticulous motion of his reaching under the pillow to retrieve the gun he'd stashed there caused, he wasn't going to risk someone putting a bullet in him before he got the chance to put one in them. Swinging his body around, he aimed the gun past the sole chair in the room, which neighboured the bed, and to the door before discharging his weapon at the slight movement he caught in the corner of his eye.

His heart hammered in his chest and he cursed loudly when he saw what he'd just put a bullet in. The back half of the rat that had been scurrying across the shelf behind the door was all that remained, its front half obliterated and splattered against the wall. With a sigh, he lowered his weapon. He was resigned to the fact that he was alone.

Michael Westen was completely alone.

It had been six days since Michael had received his burn notice. Five days since he'd been dumped in Miami. Only four since he'd learned his bank accounts were frozen and only had the money in his pockets to live by. And three since the FBI had turned up outside his motel. When the Feds hadn't moved in to arrest him, Michael had decided he was going to spend a few days planning his next move and allowing his body to heal from the beating he'd taken from the Nigerians who thought he was trying to scam the Russian, wannabe warlord out of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars when he was informed of his burn notice.

At first Michael had thought there had been some mistake when the voice on the other end of the phone told him that he was blacklisted but now he thought differently. He now thought that there was someone out there, a name on the bottom of a report or sanction, that wanted him out of the way but he had no idea why. With Michael's handler, Dan Siebels, and training officer, Tom Card, dodging his calls there was no way of learning the name of the issuing party on the burn notice as it went out without lining the very deep pockets of untrustworthy 'businessmen'.

What Michael needed was money and a plane ticket out of Miami. Most people would be thrilled to be dumped in Miami but, sadly, Michael is not most people and he wanted to get out of the area as soon as possible. Though he knew couldn't do that if he had a couple of Feds watching his every move and reporting back to god knows whom.

Tossing the gun still gripped firmly in his hand on the nightstand, Michael wiped a hand down his weary face and through the five days' worth of stubble on his chin. Needing a shower and a shave, he moved to the small, dingy bathroom in his room and leaned over the sink to look at himself in the grime covered mirror. His steely blue eyes stared back at him but that was the only part of him that seemed familiar. Michael wasn't sure that he was the same man he had been only a week ago. He very much doubted his own mother would recognise him in his present state. Provided his mother was actually on speaking terms with him, of course.

Returning to the bed after showering and cleaning himself up, Michael picked up his wallet from the nightstand and counted the measly funds within. When he'd caught one of the maids going through his wallet five days ago because she'd gotten curious about the unconscious man in one of the rooms, Michael had dealt with her the only way he knew would keep him safe. He didn't need a whole bunch of foreign agencies learning that Michael Westen's own agency had blacklisted him and then just dumped him in Miami to fend for himself. There were a large number of people that would be happy to put a bullet or two in Michael and so he'd put one or two in the maid first as a pre-emptive strike.

He withdrew his drivers' license and was mildly gratified that it was a valid Miami license in his real name. The only thing Michael could fault with it was the picture of him from 2004 that showed him looking rather unkempt but considering he'd not had a photo ID taken in all that time he wasn't overly surprised that the agency had used it. He was thankful that they had provided him with a form of identification at all.

Michael was about to replace his license back in his wallet when he stopped himself. Under the window pane that had held his license was a roughly folded, worn piece of paper. He removed it carefully and read the words written by a neat hand:

"Emergency contact; Fiona Glenanne 1-646-397-7904"

Beneath that, in a different pen, he'd written in his own messy, scrawling handwriting "New York". He easily recalled the month he'd spent State-side a few years earlier and he'd commissioned Intelligence Collection Analyst Matt Nix to find where the fiery Irish woman had gone. He'd not been able to hide his surprise when he'd learnt she was in the country as well. He flew to New York that same day with the intention of merely seeing her and not making an approach. They had been less than affable towards one another the last time they'd seen each other on a chance meeting in Germany. If he could remember correctly, Fiona had said the next time she saw him she would blast off his "two closest friends", and he thought it a good idea just to steer clear of the volatile woman. That, of course, hadn't panned out. Fiona had found Michael before he'd found her and while she didn't shoot his testicles off he did receive a painful slap across the face.

"I thought I told ya I didn' want to see ya again," she'd said in her Irish lilt.

Michael had shrugged and grinned. "You also said that you'd shoot my balls off," he'd reminded her.

Then Fiona returned his smile. "I'm still considering it."

The week that had ensued had been one of the best Michael could remember in his entire life. They picked their relationship back up where they'd left it when he'd left her in the middle if the night in Belfast after his cover had been blown. There was a time back then when he'd almost forgotten he had a job to go back to when he got a call from Tom Card that his cover had been blown and was required in Afghanistan in two days. Michael had left her that time with nothing but a dinner of tuna tahini and a whispered "I love you" in the middle of the night.

Before he'd left New York, Fiona had written down her name and phone number and shoved it in his hands and told him that should he ever need her he just needed to call and she'd be there in a heartbeat.

Michael needed her now more than ever.

He picked up the motel's phone that lay beside his gun and with only a moment's hesitation he dialled the number and put it to his ear. He waited the few seconds it took the out-dated landline to connect to New York but his patience had been for nothing when the artificial woman's voice cheerfully informed him that the number he was trying to reach had been disconnected. He had to admit that he knew there was a good chance that Fiona had changed phone numbers by now. Hell, he couldn't even be sure that she was still in the city, let alone the country. He decided to put it out of his mind, for now.

Replacing the phone in its cradle, Michael knew it was time for him to move. Six days was already too long to have been in the one place, especially with the Feds watching him, but his meagre funds had meant that if he'd wanted a place to sleep at night he'd had to stay at the cheap motel the agency had dumped him in but had thankfully paid for.

Collecting his few possessions and depositing them in his pockets, Michael donned his well-worn Armani jacket and slipped his gun in the small of his back and concealed it smoothly. He gave a cursory wipe over of all the hard surfaces and door handles that he'd touched and made sure he left nothing behind that could indicate his being there. Although, for what he would likely have to do to leave without being noticed by the Feds waiting outside, it would hardly make any difference.

Michael was reaching for the door handle when someone heavy handed knocked on it loudly. Retracting his hand, he reached it behind his back and placed it on his gun with his thumb hovering over the safety switch.

"Who is it?" Michael called through the door, lacing his voice with a heavy Boston accent.

"F.B.I.," a man's voice came back. "Open the door, Mr. Westen."

There would be no fooling the agents into thinking he wasn't who they were looking for. He also hadn't done anything to warrant their coming after him; ignoring the accidental shooting of the rat. He had nothing to worry about. Surely.

Michael removed the weapon from the small of his back and quickly placed it beneath one of the pillows on the bed. He knew that were reacting to his discharging his gun but didn't want the Feds finding it on him.

Thumbing the simple tumbler lock open on the door handle and twisting it, he barely got the door open an inch before two large forms pressed against it and forced him backwards. Michael didn't have time to react before the younger of the two Federal agents had corralled him against the wall near the bed head and was patting him down looking for any weapons.

"Where the hell's the gun, Westen," the older of the pair barked, not actually asking a question. His own gun trained squarely on Michael's back.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Michael replied with a shrug from his position against the wall.

"Care to explain that then?" the young Fed asked, with a pointing finger to the back half of the rat still sitting on the shelf.

Another shrug, "Like that when I got here."

"We heard a gun discharge," the older man growled.

"And you thought of little ol' me," Michael said for him. "That's real sweet of you but, as you noticed when you patted me down, I don't have a weapon on me."

The pair didn't seem satisfied but neither of them looked willing enough to give the dead rat a closer inspection to determine a time of obliteration and had little proof that Michael did in fact have a weapon.

"So," Michael said, adding a touch of false joviality to his voice. "You know I'm Michael Westen. And you are?"

The two exchanged a look that Michael couldn't read. "Mr. Westen," the elder of the two Feds answered him finally. "I'm Agent Harris, this is Agent Lane."

"That's great," Michael replied, not caring in the least whom they were. It made little difference to him which lackeys the F.B.I. had sent to babysit him. "Do you even know why you're watching me?"

"Don't know, don't care," Agent Harris said. "Higher up the food chain."

"Okay, well then let's call your boss and he can explain why-"

"Those aren't our orders," Agent Harris cut in. "Our orders are to keep tabs on you."

"Then you give a message to him from me. You tell him-"

"Sorry," Harris shouted over the top of Michael again. "Though, I do have a message for you."

Michael shifted uneasily at the agents change in demeanour. What kind of message could low level federal agents with a Ford outside with G-Series plates, fast-draw holsters, suits off-the-rack and cheap loafers have for him?

Agent Harris noticed Michael's unease and revelled in it. "Don't think that you've got nothing to lose; you got friends, you got family."

Michael smiled amiably at the pair and spoke through clenched teeth as he took a slight step backwards and delved his hand underneath the pillow. "Is that a threat, Agent Harris?"

Michael's movements had registered with both agents and both were again lifting their own side arms but Michael was faster. He pulled his trigger twice before the agents even had their guns above hip height. It was not how Michael had planned the scenario to go but there was no way he was going to allow any Fed to threaten his friends or family.

He'd acted the only way he knew.


	2. Chapter 2 - Necessary Evil

Here is Chapter 2 of my A/U story "Humanity Unhinged" a day early. Be on the look out for Chapter 3 next week!**  
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**Chapter 2 – Necessary Evil**

"Fuck it!" Michael swore loudly and threw his head back in frustration. Running a hand through his dark hair, he lowered himself onto the bed and took stock of the mess he'd just gotten himself into.

Both Agents' Harris and Lane were lying dead on the floor. A pool of blood slowly spreading through the dirty, grit covered carpet beneath their bodies. Michael couldn't help but noting that Agent Lane's eyes still stared at him blankly, but through it a look of surprise was there that hadn't registered on his face before Michael had shot him through the chest.

"Fuck it," Michael cursed again, quieter this time as the enormity of the fact that he had just killed two federal agents settled on him.

He had to admit to himself that he felt bad for what he'd seen as necessary. His plan had been to inform the Feds that if they didn't leave him alone he would rain hell down upon them. But that Agent Harris had threatened his friends and family. Michael had always lived by the rule that if his friends or family are in danger, he will help them whatever the risks. And that didn't change even if it were a federal agent doing the threatening.

Echoing sirens undoubtedly belonging to a number of police cruisers expedited Michael's course of action. Moving to the bathroom, Michael opened the cupboard under the sink expecting little but still coming away with an ancient bottle of Listerine and a tiny can of spray deodorant. It wasn't much in the hands of someone looking to maintain personal hygiene but in Michael's hands they became the tools he'd need to start a nice fire and that would be enough to keep the cops off his back for a few hours.

He didn't relish the task but Michael moved the bodies of both Agents Lane and Harris onto the bed, hoping to make it look as if they'd fallen asleep with a cigarette burning. He stripped the pair of their identification and, setting it on the bed between them, doused it liberally with the bottle of Listerine. There isn't a high alcohol content in Listerine but it would be enough to burn the I.D's beyond recognition and it'd also get you drunk if you consumed enough of it.

Making use of the matchbook provided by the motel, Michael ignited the small bundle of Listerine soaked I.D's before striking another match and holding it up to the spray deodorant nozzle before pressing it down. He dropped the still lit match onto the grimy carpet and waved the ablaze deodorant spray over the bedspread before setting the chair beside the bed alight as the can's contents petered out.

The fire had quickly taken hold, faster than Michael had expected, but it wasn't overly surprising given the amounts of synthetic materials in the room. Thick black smoke drove him from the room as he secured that gun he'd used to murder two federal agents at the small of his back once more. He wasn't thrilled with keeping it on his person but nor was he willing to leave it behind in the room for the cops to find. Soon enough a river would be its new home.

Michael coughed to clear his lungs of the smoke and kept his head down as he walked down the hallway, wary of any cameras that may be looking his way. His means of covering his tracks would account for nothing if he was careless enough to be able to be identified on security footage leaving the scene if a crime.

A smoke detector had yet to sound and he didn't want to inadvertently kill anyone with the fire he'd set so, as he passed a smoke alarm, he smashed the glass with his elbow and pulled down the little latch after covering his fingers with his jacket sleeve. The sound of the siren filled the air, as did a number of screams of surprise, and the incumbents of the motel shoved past one another in their rush to leave.

Michael allowed himself to be caught up in the mayhem. The police had just arrived and were, thankfully, more concerned with ensuring everyone was out of the building than finding the unknown gunman they'd initially been called about.

The police were trying to corral everyone exiting the motel into an area away from the building but close enough to keep an eye on so that statements could be taken when the situation was under control. Michael used the chaos and confusion to slip away unnoticed. He figured he had roughly two hours before the fire department discovered the charred remains of Agents Harris and Lane, then another three hours to find out their identities and not long after that the F.B.I. would be called in to take over the situation when the police realise what they are dealing with.

All in all, Michael figured he had roughly six hours, with the usual jurisdictional jerk-around being to his advantage, before anyone realised who it was that had shot those two agents.

Disembarking from the bus he'd taken to South Beach, putting some distance between himself and the motel, Michael took stock of his current predicament.

He'd been burned whilst on a mission in Nigeria leading to his being beaten to an inch of his life before having to lie that he'd stolen the money to save his own skin. He'd been dumped in Miami, a place he had avoiding since joining the army, by an unknown party. And only that morning he had been forced to kill two F.B.I. agents.

It hadn't been the world's greatest start to the day but at least he no longer had the incriminating weapon on him after he had tossed the gun into a river where it likely now sat with several other weapons used for murder and mayhem.

Michael didn't the feeling that came with being without a weapon knowing that he may require that gun for the immediate future; the number of people that would like to and enjoy killing him now that he was no longer under agency protection was a long one. But holding on to a gun used to kill two people was just poor spy craft. However, there was one number Michael knew to call so he could get himself a new gun; he just needed to find a pay phone.

He approached a young blonde girl handing out 'City of Miami'' sun visors to all of the eager tourists crowding around.

"Pay phone?" Michael asked the girl as she pressed a visor into his hands.

"Huh?" she cocked her head to the side, clearly confused by what Michael had asked.

Sighing, Michael mimicked inserting a coin into a slot with his left hand and then picking up a phone with his right. "You put coins in, and then you..."

A large smile spread over the girls face as she finally understood. "Oh! Yeah, yeah, umm, right over there," she said and pointed in the direction Michael needed to go.

Michael was wary of the people around him as he picked up the phone and deposited his coin into the machine. The last thing he needed was someone eavesdropping and having him followed by the cops and arrested when he met up with his gun runner. He dialled the phone number of the gun runner he and Fiona and used only a couple of times before but whom he knew would be in Miami and have a gun or two he could purchase.

Michael spoke quietly when the phone was answered after only three rings. "Seymour, it's Michael Westen from-"

"I know who you are, Michael!" the gun runner practically cheered down the phone. "How could I forget the badass spy?"

Michael rolled his eyes. He didn't particularly want to have to deal with Seymour but he was in a hurry and had little other options available. "Yes," he said bluntly. "I'm in need of your expertise."

"Sure! What do you need?" Michael could practically hear Seymour's euphoria over the phone.

"A Sig P-228." Michael dropped his voice even lower because he'd attracted the attention of a young boy at a nearby drinking fountain.

"You're gonna have to speak up, Michael, I can't hear you!" Seymour called down the line.

"I need a Sig Sauer P-228," Michael growled through clenched teeth. "If you have one."

"Of course! Anything you need, Michael."

"Thank you!" Michael sighed exasperatedly.

"You're welcome," Seymour replied cheerfully, either ignoring or completely oblivious to Michael's sarcasm. "I'll meet you in an hour?"

Michael accepted and hung up the phone before having to speak with Seymour a moment longer. He hoped that he could get his new weapon and convince the gun runner to allow him to pay later due to his lack of funds without having another lengthy conversation.

Requiring a car to get to his meeting, Michael had to 'borrow' a dark blue sedan from the beach car park, deciding that the owners wouldn't miss it for a few hours. He didn't like stealing cars sometimes it was necessary. He did have rules though; he always kept it clean and if he took the car on a work day he'd have it back by five.

The house at the address Seymour had provided Michael with was opulent to say the least; with three storeys of ocean views, fountain and secluded location, it was easy to say that arms dealing was a good business for Seymour. Given the number of cars parked in the drive way and the sounds coming from the rear of the property, it appeared as though Seymour was enjoying the warm Miami day with a party and Michael strongly considered making a quiet retreat as he strolled up the drive rather than providing the police with a hundred eyewitnesses of his latest exploits.

Michael didn't get the chance to turn away before the party host himself spotted him.

"Michael!" Seymour shouted as he jogged towards him, his open cotton shirt flapping in the breeze as he moved.

Michael groaned inwardly but then plastered a fake smile on his face as the other man clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"You're just in time!" Seymour announced. He led Michael around the back of the property where a party was in full swing with drinks being mixed and bikini clad babes were lounging by the pool instead of swimming in it.

Michael wasn't entirely sure what he was in time for but he was certain that he didn't want any part of it. "Seymour, you didn't tell me you were having a party."

The arms dealer looked a little sheepish. "It was kind of a last minute thing to celebrate your being back in town."

"You shouldn't have," Michael growled through clenched teeth as he gripped the back of Seymour's neck tightly.

As Michael lead Seymour back towards the house, Seymour tried to explain but failed miserably until he was told to shut up.

"Please tell me you at least have the gun I asked for."

Seymour nodded vigorously. "Of course I do, Michael," he said, sounding hurt that it had been suggested that he wouldn't come through with the weapon.

Michael took the gun offered to him and immediately felt comforted by the familiar weight in his hand. Pulling back the slide, he noted it was already fully loaded and Seymour was throwing in a spare clip as a "freebie".

Gun still in hand; Michael informed Seymour that he would be unable to pay for the gun at that point in time but that he was good for it.

Not in the slightest bit concerned by the weapon loosely pointed at him, Seymour waved him off. "I know you're good for it, Michael. You're a total badass but I know you're good for it."

Thanking him, Michael decided to take his leave before Seymour suggested he join him at the party for Jell-O shots or something else as equally ridiculous.

"Oh!" Seymour called after Michael as he left. "I'm sorry for your loss!"

Michael turned around but Seymour was already engrossed in assisting a young woman with retrieving an ice cube that had 'accidentally' fallen down her bikini top. Shaking his head, Michael continued on his way but was still wondering why the arms dealer would express his sympathies for his losing his job in such a manner.


	3. Chapter 3 - Family Business

A big thanks to everyone that has reviewed and followed my story so far. Whenever I get writers block or not particularly feel like writing I come and read them for inspiration.

I hope you enjoy the next chapter of "Humanity Unhinged"; 'Family Business'.

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**Chapter 3 – Family Business**

Unsure of where to go or what to do about his burn notice, Michael drove aimlessly. Throughout his career he had heard about spies being blacklisted for doing something illegal whilst on a mission or taking bribes, dumped back on home soil - if they were lucky - and completely disavowed before spies from a country they'd worked in came and disposed of them for good.

Michael had never betrayed his country but he had still been burned, making him question everything he had ever known. As much as he would have liked to do something about his burn notice, there was little he could do about it without finding who had issued it; and there was little chance in hell that he would ever find that out.

It didn't take long before the area Michael was driving in became familiar to him and he was motoring down roads he'd not driven since learning to drive twenty-four years earlier. He passed the homes of the few childhood friends he had had. A smile came to his face as he recalled all the things he had done with those friends with his younger brother, Nate, usually tagging along; things that his mother, Madeline, had told him would either kill him or put him in jail were what he had done on a daily basis as part of his job, or at least it had been until he'd gotten burned.

You can't take away a spy's skills or what's in his head but you can take away the resources that allow him to do it.

Bringing the borrowed car to a halt, Michael put it in park as he stared across the street at his childhood home. Memories of the seventeen years he'd spent under that roof before joining the army came easily to him and very few of them were pleasant memories. Usually the happy memories were just small wins over his alcoholic father, Frank, such as the time when Frank had forbidden him from seeing the first Star Wars movie at age six and so he'd broken out of his room to see it anyway.

Though, speak of the devil and the devil shall appear. Frank Westen stormed out of the rear of the home with a garbage bag in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Michael instinctually ducked down in the seat of the car despite knowing full well his father wouldn't see him. The fear Frank Westen had instilled into his sons at an early age was still present despite Michael and Nate now being grown men.

Michael recalled one Christmas when he was a young teen and he and his father got into a fight because Frank was pushing Nate around, he copped a black eye but Frank backed down so he took it as a win. He also remembered how no one was talking to anyone so Madeline told them that she was going to throw the whole dinner down the garbage unless they stood there for a picture. Michael was sure that the photo resulting from that was still sitting on the mantle but he didn't know why she liked it considering she and Nate were the only ones smiling and Michael was sporting a black eye.

A knocking on the window of the car snapped Michael from his reverie and, cursing, his had moved automatically to his belt for his gun. How had the cops found him so quickly?

"That's no way to greet your mother," Madeline Westen's muffled voice came through the glass.

Michael turned to face his mother like a scolded child. She'd hardly changed since he last saw her eight years previously; her hair was still short and bleached blonde and she was still perpetually smoking a cigarette.

"Ma," Michael said jovially as he got out of the car, sounding as if he hadn't been away for almost a decade. "It's good to see you. How are you?"

Madeline ignored the question. "How long are back in town?" she countered.

The times Michael did spend State side before his burn notice were rarely spent visiting his parents, instead he opted to visit them during the last few days of his time off so that he always had the excuse that he had to leave at a moment's notice. Madeline always moaned that the people Michael worked for didn't give him enough time off but he had a feeling that she secretly knew the truth about his not wanting to come by.

Michael scratched his chin, weighing the pros and cons of telling his mother that he had effectively been fired. "Not long, I'm afraid." A small lie never hurt anyone. "A few days."

"Uh-huh," was all that Madeline would say before she turned back to her home and left her eldest son behind her.

Michael watched her go for a few moments before hiding his new gun in the glove box of the car and followed after her. He never had been able to tell her a lie without her realising it.

The mother and son entered their family home to find Frank Westen seated in front of the television with a beer bottle in his hand and at least three empty bottles scattered around him on the floor. "Tell 'em we don't want any," he barked, not bothering to look up from the football game he was watching.

"Frank, it's Michael," Madeline told her husband as she cleaned up around him. "He stopped by for a visit."

Frank levered himself out of his chair and went and stood in front of his eldest son. Despite them now being of a similar height, Michael still got the feeling his father was looking down on him and subconsciously stood up straighter and jutted his chin out so that he was that slight bit taller than the man who had tormented him most of his life.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Frank slurred.

"Hello, Dad," Michael said with a nod. He, at least, could be civil even if the older man could not.

The similarities between the two were uncanny. They both shared dark hair and piercing blue eyes but where Frank's body had gone to fat, Michael had stayed muscular. The stark difference between the twos facial features were the scars Michael bore as a reminder of his seventeen years at home.

"What brings you here, boy?" Frank asked as he returned to his game. It wasn't much fun trying to intimidate your kid if he wasn't going to show any fear.

"I was in town and thought I would come and visit." It was all the explanation Frank was going to get.

"So," Madeline said as she returned from the kitchen. "Where were you this time, Michael?"

He tried not to show anyway frustration, he'd forgotten how many times he'd told his mother that what he did was classified and so couldn't be shared; not even over her attempts at meat loaf. "You know I can't tell you that, Ma."

"He was probably in one of them Muslim countries killing innocent people," Frank inserted for him.

It wasn't that Frank cared about the countless women and children that were murdered due to insurgents or during American military action, he just didn't understand what his eldest son did for a living and so thought he was a hired gun for the government.

Michael sighed. "No, I was actually trying to stop bad people from killing those innocent people."

"Yeah, right," Frank said disbelievingly.

"At least I'm doing something," Michael snapped losing his cool. Frank had always had that effect on him.

"I provided for this family for thirty fucking years, boy!" Frank shouted back.

Michael scoffed. "Yeah, you were such a great provider for this family. You made me fake a seizure inside a Mr. Goodwrench store so you could steal some goddamn spark plugs!"

"You looking for a beating, boy? Don't think I won't take my belt to you," Frank pitched forward in his chair, threatening to get to his feet and make good on his word.

"I'm not thirteen anymore, _Dad_," sarcasm entered Michael's voice. "Don't you see I'm not afraid? I'm not afraid anymore. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of anything."

Frank glared at Michael, his fist white knuckled around his beer bottle.

"Besides," Michael added. "I'd just end up kicking your ass like I did when I was sixteen anyway."

"Why you little-"

Frank didn't finish what he was going to call Michael before bolting out of his chair and lunging drunkenly at him. Not wanting to cause his father any serious harm, Michael side stepped and used Frank's own momentum to send him crashing into a side table.

"Just stop," Michael shouted over the grunts coming from Frank as he tried to disentangle himself from the destroyed side table and the crushed photo frames and trinkets that had been knocked to the floor.

Frank was beyond listening and charged again. Despite his being severely intoxicated he was still able to amend his course when Michael again went to step from his path and, catching his son in a bear-hug, sent them both crashing into the television.

Michael was trained in close hand-to-hand combat in numerous styles of martial arts but it was difficult to defend yourself against an assailant when that assailant had crash landed on top of you and was using twice your body weight to pin you down. Out of options, Michael shot his hand out to the right and felt for anything that might give him an upper hand. He gripped something solid and without looking at it brought it down on Frank's head.

The knock sent Frank reeling backwards but before he could come at Michael again Madeline had stepped in between them, shielding them from each other.

"Stop it!" she croaked, her voice sounding as if she had been screaming those words repeatedly.

Panting, Michael lifted himself from the floor and swept away the glass from the television from his clothes. He eyed his father warily but the other man seemed content just to glare at him. He barely registered that Madeline was tugging on his now ruined suit jacket before he stormed out of the back of the house to avoid the wreckage blocking the front door.

"I'll see you in hell, boy," Frank shouted at Michael's back before he could slam the door shut behind him.

He retreated to the garage and perched on the hood of Frank's black, 1973 Dodge Charger. He remembered the summers he and Nate had spent working on it but they could never get it running. He doubted it ran now considering the thick layer of dust resting on it. Secretly, he had always hoped to be given the car but knew it was a pipe dream as long as Frank was around.

A soft knock came from the door leading back to the house and Michael turned to see his mother standing there. "Hi," was all she said.

He sighed. "Sorry, Ma." It didn't feel like he'd said enough but he wasn't sure what else to say. Frank had always known how to push his buttons and he'd allowed his emotions to get the better of him once again.

Without saying a word, Madeline came and leant next to Michael before handing him a small wad of cash.

"Ma, I don't need this," he said as he tried to put it back in her hand. In truth he did but he didn't want to have to owe his mother.

Madeline just shook her head and refused to take the money back. "I know there's something you're not telling me but I'm not going to ask what it is because if you wanted to tell me I know you would," they both knew it was a lie but neither of them pointed it out. "So, just take it and let's never speak of it again."

Michael smiled softly. "Thanks, Ma," was all he was able to rasp out.

Then Madeline was all business again. "Now, I think it's best if you go in case your father is looking to start round two."


End file.
